Fox and Lazy Dog
by Benjaminyatta
Summary: "Take what I say like a suicide note. When my story's done, I'm done." Please, tell us, Jeff Garrett... what did you see? What were you the witness to, those days before the Griffin murder?


I wrote a run-on poem that describes what Jeff thought about Mark Kinney in the seventh grade. "Things best enjoyed while not alone." inspired me. Updates come with inspiration, and when I have time to work on this.

It's kinda gay.

(Jeff POV, about Mark)

Once, when we were younger, my best friend dressed

in drag. He wore his mother's Sunday dress,

the one that had the little blue daisies,

and he didn't seem to care in the least-

like he didn't even notice that he

was caught in the act of indecency.

It was old, looking like it came from the

early vintage era; the _Red Fern_ film

or even _Old Yeller_, if I recall.

When I first looked at him, I was appalled.

But despite my initial reaction,

I think I fell in love with him that day.

I thought that my parents would be angry,

so I didn't tell anyone, not him.

I also didn't tell anyone that

when I saw him wearing that long blue dress,

I had sensed a dark and ghostly being.

One that boiled inside of him, always.

From the school and the cat lit on fire,

I knew that he was a ghastly daemon,

a ghost, and a vengeful spirit, come down

from the world of nothingness just to speak

to me, a lowly mortal, and his friend.

I was the only friend he ever had.

He never spoke much to anyone else,

all except for a select few people

including and strictly limited to-

Lana, the only girl he got close to,

Betsey, the snobby girl whom he ignored

but tolerated all at the same time.

I had the luck to be in the elect

few whom he had the patience to let speak

to him without telling them to shut up.

Lana and I at the top of his list,

ranked hand-in-hand, maybe a bit under

a tiny, silent, Spanish kid; a

boy that Mark said he liked to sit next to

because he didn't talk too much, even

allowing Mark to crouch down next to him

and stare at him like he was a painting

whilst he sat stimming in a far corner

of the classroom, even during classes.

Mark told me that the schoolgirls had bored him.

He said that they were too squeal-y and loud,

that they always wanted to kiss him, and

that they always cried when he said that he

didn't want to touch them, and hated their

defilement of his personal space.

"You're crazy." I said. He didn't listen.

It was absurd that he did not like girls.

To a young boy, it was so abnormal.

Suddenly, he was something else to me.

Something that looked and acted so strangely

And thought different thoughts other than my own.

I never saw him walking among the

other boys, or even in the big crowd

of jocks, not even when they spoke to him,

or when he followed me to basketball.

(He did follow me everywhere I went.

Even as he trailed me like a puppy,

I knew despite his apparent actions,

he was not trying to be a stalker.

I tried not to mind too much, and so I

never addressed the "issue," not even once.)

They were not too hyped about him, either.

They had thought of him as the freak that stared

with a mindless and silver gaze at them,

reading their thoughts, and yet, never breathing

a word about their most darkest secrets.

He never spoke about himself, either.

David, one of my friends in English class

said that he was surprised that Mark had talked.

He said that the boy never opened up,

and that he never spoke when called upon,

even if our teacher was Miss Dolly.

His eyes watered, like he was going to

start crying in the middle of the class,

and he would glare at the floor with a wrath

that scared Dolly Luna into silence.

David said he was sent to the nurse,

and shortly after, he was excused for

the rest of the day. I was envious.

Him, antisocial, scared of Dolly L,

However he had the gall for the dress

there was no explanation for me.

I quote Yoshiaki Yoshinaga,

and his passage of Nekojiru,

"Nekojiru was like a fragile little animal in need of someone to protect her.

But behind this endearingly feminine side lurked a curious darkness. Something strange and dangerous had taken root in the depths of her soul.

I was speechless when I realized the chasm of opaque desire that separated us."

Just as a note, the entirety of the writing will be in Jeff's eyes, unless I say different. It will also be entirely poems, so expect nothing more.

"I cried once, and no-one noticed," Mark said

one day at the pier. I sat beside him,

surprised at this sudden outburst after

nearly a half hour of calm silence.

We had gone down to the pond for fishing.

It took a little convincing to make

him bend to the idea and come join me.

He never got out, and I felt sorry.

But I never expected him to say

this, something so strange and oddly scary.

He blurted out this simple and direct

statement, not looking at me, but instead,

down at the water with a hollow stare.

I waited nervously for him to say

something else, perhaps an explanation,

But alas, our company lapsed back to

nothing. I sat next to him, dead silent,

unable to bring words out of my throat.

It felt like there was something choking me,

and it clung to my neck like a thick noose.

Little did I know, he felt the same way.

Trapped in a lonely chasm, one only

he could understand. I was too simple

and young to reach the levels that he had.

And then, he seemed almost like a shaman,

A wise man who knew so much more than I

and has seen the world in all it's terror,

experience that drove him to the edge.

I only looked at the water with him,

unable to comprehend who he was.

Other days, we would play in my backyard.

Me throwing a basketball in a hoop,

and him leaning against a tree under

the cooling shade. I asked if he wanted

to play with me, but he would just decline

no matter how many times I caught him

staring, watching me intently with a

far-off look in his eyes, one that seemed dead.

I guess I felt bad for him, so I brought

him over to my house almost daily.

My parents wondered how he had so much

free time on his hands, and if he ever

went home at all. They even went to Mark

himself, who just told them that his parents

didn't mind him being gone for a few

more hours of the day. I didn't care

that much back then, only that he was here.

At his home, if he got mad, he would whip

his dog, Lie, and scold her relentlessly.

He would use an old, broken rubber hose.

When I asked why, he told me "just because"

with a casual, almost friendly tone.

I accepted, and just left it at that.

On the Fourth of July, we had taken

the subway down to the local town park.

I was given money by my parents

and tickets for the both of us, as well.

I walked to his house, feeling very pleased.

A whole day we could use to wander by

ourselves, unanchored by metaphor's cruel

dog's leash, suspicious adults or angry

babysitters that we were too old for.

That day, I felt like I was a new man.

The walk to the subway train had been smooth

sailing, almost nothing bothered us. Thanks

to Mark. How he trailed behind me in my

shadow scared off all the people, I think.

He did things like that. Follow just so close

behind me that once, a man had stopped us,

tapping Mark on the shoulder and saying,

"Get on his back, why don't you, little one?"

The man laughed at us for some time. I

was irritated, but I did nothing.

Mark, on the other hand, flew into a

rage. "Shut up, you God-damned pervert!" scream-ed

he, sharply slapping the man in the face.

While the stranger man patted his cheek in

shock and pain, Mark pulled me on to the train.

I had never felt more embarrassed in

my entire life. I felt less a man

and more like a bad parent with no reigns

on my wayward child. The bad feeling

was increased after we had exchange-ed,

"Why do you have to be so rude?" Was me.

"But that man was a pervert, Mom!" Was him.

I told him that we should be quiet on

the train. I never felt more of a "Mom."

That would happen a lot, in the future.

No words could explain how scared that I was.

"That crazy Spaniard, Silver, is gone.

He was taken, whisked away on a whim

and replaced in the room down the hallway.

The place where they lock you up if they feel

that you are dangerous, or are insane."

David said with amusement on a dull

October Thursday, a month after school

woke up, and everyone had settled down,

ready to begin another long year.

Most contrary to David's intentions,

it didn't come as a surprise to me-

or, anyone else here, for that matter-

when the Spec.S came to rudely drag him out

of a normal life and reputation.

It wasn't like he had one, anyway.

Ever since we started the new school year,

he outright refused to sit at a desk.

I was surprised at his gall to talk back,

even in the hallway, to that Griffin,

and he was quickly picked out as a freak.

Neither I, nor David, could have blamed them.

There was something that wasn't right with him.

His hair was white, and his skin was too pale.

But Mark spoke, since he was friends with the boy.

In turn, we left the both of them alone.

That did not stop us from thinking those things.

He never seemed to care about rumors,

instead, sitting next to Mark and drawing.

Mark liked to talk to me during lunch break.

Half of his talk was set to complaining-

about life, loss, and about loves' lost life-

the rest- entirely for Silver.

We knew not his name, and he would not tell.

"Silver told me 'bout a game today, Jeff.

He said that if you lose, you're a loser.

I told him I thought that the rules were,

'If you lose, you die.' That's how I knew it.

He had told me, 'in some cases, that's true.'"

He talked on and on about the same kid,

but I listened and smiled and nodded,

which was more than Silver had ever done.

He told Mark that he would have rather played

with something more than a simple pencil-

dice, or a figurine, for examples.

Mark tried to get him this, but was detained

for interrupting the in-school session.

He was mad at the adults, after that.

Cursing his parents and cursing the world.

I can see his reasoning behind this.

Few people actually listened to him,

the rest he thought of as guiltless bastards.

It didn't help that his parents were this.

Another thing about the Spanish kid-

tuning himself away from the outside world

was the only thing that he cared about.

He would go to great measures to distance

himself from us, preferring to take a

spot in the back, tucked between a pair of

tall cabinets covered by a black board

taken down from the wall to be a roof

for the creepy child sitting below.

He had been sent to the office three times

in two weeks, which is probably what got

Mark to be so interested in him.

"Poor little mute-brat." David had whispered

to me in the middle of History.

He's dwelling with the disturbed, now he is."

I found David's choice of words amusing,

so after bell, I told Mark this same thing.

I thought that it would cheer him up a bit.

He had been in a deep, depressive funk

ever since his friend was relocated.

The first day, he didn't do his homework

and refused to eat any food offered

unless he was allowed to eat with his

departed comrade, spirited away

to group with the retarded outcast kids

and sometimes days of in-school suspension.

From what I heard, he didn't take it well.

But anyone sane couldn't have, either.

Mark said he constantly had his guard up,

never letting down the wall that blocked him,

though with little effect, from everything

in the room that Mark said, 'reminded him

of acid tripping in a prison cell.'

He said that his friend looked like a white rat,

buried into himself and ignoring

any intervention by the women

of whom he had been driven to growl at.

This didn't help his case, but instead, made

them prevent Mark from seeing him again.

Later on, after the school day was done,

Mark ducked away with a metal bat.

I followed him to the back of the shed,

where he had a raccoon on a leash of

metal wire. Mark dug in his pocket,

and brought up a match, striking it against

the wall. I watched as it leaped into flame.

What he did was cruel and despicable.

I wanted to stop him, feeling sorry

for the poor little creature on the ground

as Mark poured kerosene over it's fur,

lit it on fire, and beat it to death

as it squirmed and screamed, bound by a wire.

This is the first time i've told anyone

about the incident with the raccoon.

Once, I saw Silver while walking in the

hallway. I had to see if Mark was right.

His description was painfully honest.

(But so is everything else that he says;

that boy does not know the meaning of shame)

Whenever I saw him, he looked disturbed.

His normally calm and stoic gaze was

shriveled down into one of sharp terror,

and a woman in blue constantly loomed

over his shoulder, asking him if he

were feeling better, should we go back now?

And when he caught me staring, he had seemed

to plead to me, to jailbreak him from Hell.

Mark sensed this plea more than anyone else.

That was one of the neat things about Mark.

It looked as though he himself felt nothing,

but he was surprisingly good reading

other people's emotions, like a book.

That did not mean that he would help them, though.

But somehow, for a God-knows-why reason,

the albino was a rare exception.

He had proven his heavy loyalty

when, without a warning whatsoever

he kidnapped me about halfway to class,

pulling me behind some of the lockers

and telling me with the same monotone

used that day at the pond, "We will save him."

I scoffed and rolled my eyes down at him, but

he wasn't paying any attention,

waiting with little patience and hyper

nerves, the most emotion he'd ever showed.

I had been worried enough as it was

and I grew steadily more concerned when

he quickly strode down the long, lit hallway,

ducking under the doors with the windows.

He always made smart decisions like that.

Things that I would otherwise overlook.

If you were planning something illegal,

it would be wise to have Mark on your team.

I followed him, not sure what else to do.

I'd never been in this situation,

my mother would kill me if she found out!

And yet, it would kill me to know that he

got in trouble- me knowing I could have

helped him out. Conditions my breath's not for.

It seemed like forever until we reached

our destination. I wish it were true,

because when we got there, Mark didn't wait

for formal introductions. Wrathfully,

with the strength of a mad bull and the rage

of a psychopath, he kicked in the door,

blowing one of the top hinges clear off.

I cringed in utter shock and hopeless fear.

Idiot! What trouble would we be in?

I wanted to run, but I couldn't have.

Something possessed me to stay where I was.

I heard screams resound from within the room,

terrified and feeling very attacked.

I could see all the teachers gathering

their charges into organized huddles.

Suddenly, Mark and I were terrorists.

I felt we were in an action movie,

exhilarated by the rush of it,

and I dipped my head inside of the gap

to get a better look at the crime scene.

Mark strode, almost marching, across the floor,

already having spotted his old friend

and Hell-bent on bringing him to safety.

Mark had few respectable qualities

but they were still there- this was one of them-

once he set his mind on doing something

even if that something involved murder

(Respectable? Hah! You fool, Jeff Garrett!)

or a simple schoolground kidnapping case,

nothing, not even God could have stopped him.

His powerful stride and furious, fixed gaze

was enough to send the staff huddling

around the students like a human shield.

They knew from his stare- soul-less, frozen stare,

that he wouldn't hesitate to kill them.

I had witnessed one of these daggers, once-

Nevermore had I felt more terrified.

I turned my eyes over to our target

who, I dare say, never looked the white-er.

Sickly and disgusted- end of his rope.

Which may have been The End, if not for Mark.

When Mark finally stopped, I expected

him to take out a match and baseball bat.

Those people were as dead as raccoons, now.

I felt sorry for them, despite it all.

The women were all caught up in a fit,

looking as though they had seen a murder,

beyond horrified as Mark had reached out,

grabbed the albino boy's hand, and yanked back,

pulling him out of the circle with ease.

Silver himself looked heavily relieved,

and grateful to his Mark for saving him.

I watched from just outside of the doorway.

I thought the scene looked very heroic-

and to some degree, kind of heartwarming.

However a kidnapping pulls heartstrings.

Things do that to me. I blame the hormones.

When one of the girls tried to take him back,

Mark slung the boy up over his shoulders

like he was a white sack of potatoes,

and stumbled hurriedly out of the room

swaying dangerously from imbalance.

But we didn't make a clean getaway.

All three of us were brought to the police,

and Mark was put in juvie for a while.

He said it was worth it. He didn't care

where he was at the time- happy knowing

that when he got back to school in a week,

he would sit at the far end of the class

with his little friend and the two would draw,

discussing hopes of a bit more freedom

and possibly, to have toys in the class.

"I think that people used to spend all day

watching the others get sewn together."

Mark had told me when we were eating out.

We were sent away by annoyed parents,

under the excuse they needed some time

to spend by themselves. I didn't care, but

Mark thought it was rude of them. He hates them

more and more as time goes on. I worry.

But I worry more, now that he told me,

"I think that we should do that, too, today."

I tried reasoning with him. "We would how?"

"We shall go to the hospital, and see."

He got up from his chair, and went out the

door, leaving me to pay for what we ate.

When I finally caught up with him on

the corner of Main Street, he told me that

"We'll bring Silver, too." I thought about it.

"Does he want to see people get sewn up?"

"Yes." Mark told me, and he tore down the street.

Whatever Mark said people wanted, they

did. At least, in his eyes they did. He can't

stop to consider what other people

think. I wonder how those two are still friends.

Mark could be so selfish and rude sometimes.

Maybe that is why he is adopted.

He said that he watched his father die in

fire, and his mother rejected him.

I see why he hates the adults so much.

It's something that normal people can't see.

It's why he says that adults are the rude

ones; that we are the only good people.

I think it's because we do what he says.

It's not like I have the heart to protest

and if I did, I fear he might hate me.

Silver? He just doesn't talk, period.

I heard him say four words once. I was shocked

that he said that much. I think that it was

"You're in my light." He's just as rude as Mark

whenever he chooses to open his

mouth. Maybe that is why they are still friends.

They are both rude pricks. That means I'm rude, too

because I am friend of the both of them.

To this day, I am not really sure why.

We nearly got ran over on our way

to the hospital. Luckily, I had

convinced Mark to leave him alone today.

He was disappointed, but let it be.

"What if he doesn't like the sight of blood?"

I ask him to try and raise his concern.

"Then we can blindfold him." He said right back.

"What if he's dead?" I asked him, not thinking.

"What would suck." I can see your sympathy...

For the rest of the day, Silver was dead.

We gained the joint attention of both the

hospital staff and the patients in the

waiting room when we burst in through the doors.

Mark burst in. I was following behind.

Immediately, he made a break for

two large double-doors that lead to the heart

of the hospital, but didn't get far.

He was caught by the nurses before he

even make it past the women's bathroom.

"What do you think you're doing kid? You have

to check in, first!" Yelled an angry surgeon

with a scalpel in his hand. I paled some.

"I wanna see people stuck with needles,

with so much blood that you need a blindfold.

My best friend died today with one of those.

He didn't like blood, so we blindfolded

him and he died." I stopped listening, then.

We were escorted from the premises

with a heavy warning not to come back.

Mark said that it was disappointing, and

maybe we would have seen people needled

if Silver hadn't been selfish and died.

I knew that something is wrong with that kid.

I wanted to tell someone about him.

I didn't, because I liked him too much.

I wasn't sure if he liked me back, though.

I guess I'll never find out. Maybe it's

for the greater good I don't hear such things.

After all, what would my mother have said?


End file.
